Just My Luck (The Kings)

“This batch is absolute shit.” My brewer went by the name Meatball despite the fact that he was thin as a rail. He stood about five foot four with dark hair and a thick black mustache. Maybe the nickname was because he looked vaguely Italian? You never knew with this town, and I was still trying to figure that one out.

Tuesday mornings were quiet. The brewery didn’t open until the afternoon, which meant I could spend my time working on recipes, checking batch fermentation, or equipment sanitation without interruption. I enjoyed the solitude and quiet hum of the machines. Meatball was the only person I had to interact with, and that suited me just fine.

In the brewhouse, brew kettles and large fermenting tanks took up much of the area, but I’d tucked a small desk into the space. It allowed me to work alongside the batches in peace. Above the desk I’d even installed a shelf, and on it were jars of ingredients I was tinkering with—lavender, candied orange, new varieties of hops.

I swiveled in my chair to face him. Meatball was direct and never looked at me the way the rest of Outtatowner seemed to. It was the main reason I’d pushed to hire him to be my assistant brewer despite his lack of experience. He was a hard worker, and that meant more to me than his lack of skills. Skills you could learn.

When I didn’t respond, but only glanced his way, he continued, “It’s close, but there are notes of . . .” He rolled his tongue, smacking it against the roof of his mouth to taste the sample. “Licorice, maybe? Something bitter and off-putting.”

My eyes narrowed, and I gestured for him to come closer. “Let me see.”

Meatball used a sanitized pipette to get a fresh sample and deposited it into a tasting glass. He passed the glass to me. I held it up to the light, examining the color and meniscus as it clung to the sides of the glass. I sniffed and it held notes of berry and a hint of herbs. I placed the sample to my lips and took a small taste.

Jesus, fuck.

My face pinched and I set the glass down.

“I don’t think it’ll get better with conditioning.” Meatball frowned, crossing his arms.

I shook my head. “No, you’re right. It’s off. Scrap it.”

His eyebrows lifted. “The whole batch?”

I turned back to my desk. “You said it yourself—it’s shit. Scrap it.”Content bel0ngs to Nôvel(D)r/a/ma.Org.

Meatball nodded and worked to clean the area before taking steps to dump all ten gallons of the test batch down the drain. “You got it, boss.”

I flinched at his words as Sloane’s throaty voice hammered into my memory. She may not realize it, but she got under my skin anytime she called me boss. It sounded different coming from her. The word rolled around in my head and clung to my ribs.

Distracting myself from a particularly irritating brunette, I pulled a three-ring binder off the shelf and flipped to the recipe page for that specific batch of beer. Something was off, and it was my job as the brewmaster to figure it out. Any number of things could alter a brew, from oxidation to contamination to something as simple as an odd combination of flavors. My gut told me the combination of blueberry and basil would be a hit around here, given everyone’s obsession with blueberries in this region.

I couldn’t blame them. Because of the acidic soil and coastal climate, there was nowhere else in the country where you could get berries as delicious.

Unfortunately, the best blueberries in the state were from Sullivan Farms, but my father’s hard-on for hating the Sullivans meant sourcing from them was out of the question. Dad nearly had a coronary when I’d suggested reaching out to Duke Sullivan, owner of Sullivan Farms, for a collaboration. He’d thrown a tantrum and insisted that we source the berries from any number of other farmers in the area. What he hadn’t anticipated was the farmers’ loyalty to the Sullivans. As a result, our only option was to obtain berries from outside of Michigan—frozen ones at that.

They were absolute trash.

He may pride himself on being a skilled businessman, but Dad didn’t know beer. Only the best ingredients would translate into the best-tasting beer, and that meant berries from Sullivan Farms.

I slashed a thick black line in permanent marker across the berries listed on the recipe and above it wrote “Sullivan berries.” I’d swallow my pride for the benefit of the beer and would see about getting some from Duke for a new batch.

What my father didn’t know wouldn’t hurt a damn thing.

“Hey,” I called out to Meatball. “We’re going to try this recipe again, but I’ll need a few days to get some ingredient variants.”

He nodded and continued cleaning the equipment. Another fantastic quality was he kept his mouth shut. I eyed my assistant.

He’s getting a raise.

I went back to my work, hunching over the recipe and mentally calculating again to adjust for fresh versus frozen berries. My gut had rarely been wrong about a recipe—I didn’t want to give up on this one so quickly.

With the next step of conditioning the new beer grinding to a halt, I found myself with a free afternoon. It was a rarity, and I hated not having something to do. Tucking a small notepad into my pocket, I sneaked out of the brewery, avoiding the front bar altogether. People had already begun filtering in, spending afternoons here grabbing a post-work beer or pre-beach snack. I didn’t have the energy for their sidelong, wary glances.

Instead, I set off on foot, walking down the beach toward Main Street, notepad in hand. In it, I often noted smells or tastes that seemed interesting or appealed to me in some way. It didn’t matter how obscure or seemingly random they appeared; everything went into the notebook.

Corn dog (fried corn). Misty air. Beach grass. Coconut oil.

I underlined coconut and mulled over that idea as I walked.

Coconut and chili pepper. Cardamom? Lemongrass?

Most ideas were random thoughts that would never come to fruition, but I knew inspiration could strike at any time and I would be ready. I tucked the notepad back into the front pocket of my jeans as I approached the sidewalk that would take me east through downtown. I paused to consider my destination. South Beach was already full of tourists soaking up the late spring sun. Downtown was slowly shifting from day-trippers and shopping to coastal nights out on the town. Gawking stares and fearful eyes held little appeal.

I’d decided to turn back and head north toward the brewery to head home when Sloane’s rusted navy-blue car caught my eye. It was parked outside of Wegman’s Grocer, an overpriced convenience grocery shop for tourists too hurried to head a few blocks over to the grocer the rest of us used.

Curiosity got the best of me, and I shifted directions, pounding up the pavement toward downtown. When I reached the storefront, patrons were milling around inside. I didn’t recognize anyone outside of the checker working the register. Despite my anonymity, wary glances still melted over me as I walked down the aisles.

I pushed a cart, aimlessly assessing the overpriced items.

Why are you even here?

I tossed a box of cereal into the cart and a can of ranch-style beans before rounding a corner and coming to an abrupt stop. At the end of the aisle, I spotted Sloane hunched over a small figure—her son, I presumed—while her little girl stood next to her, silently bawling her eyes out.

I scanned the store—was no one else seeing this?

Despite Sloane’s obvious crisis, not a single person was stopping to ask whether she was okay or needed help. Indecision gnawed at me. The Sloane I knew was confident and a spitfire. She didn’t need some asshole coming to her rescue. Hell, she probably didn’t even need help in the first place.

I slowly made progress toward her, keeping my gaze impassive and discreet. Sure enough, the little girl had hot tears streaming down her face as one hand covered her mouth to muffle her sobs. The young boy was in the fetal position, gently rocking on the floor as Sloane rubbed his back and whispered to him.

“Please, baby. We have to get up. You’re safe.” Her voice was rough and thick with unshed tears. “I need you to get up, Ben. You’re too big for me to carry.”

Sloane’s shopping cart was haphazardly stopped, blocking the aisle. It was plumb full of what I assumed was their food for the week. The young boy continued to cry, his wails getting louder and drawing more and more attention.

My heart hammered against my ribs. Sloane looked around, her eyes pleading. Her attention returned to her son as she wound her arms around his middle and attempted to pick him up. The kid wasn’t big, but Sloane was unable to get his deadweight to budge.

A sorrowful sob escaped her and ripped my chest open. Without thinking, I abandoned my cart and closed the distance between us. As my footfalls drew closer, her eyes whipped up, rimmed in red.

I paused in front of the boy. “Can I get him?”

Shock flitted over her petite features before her eyes went wide and she nodded. I took the single dip of her chin as permission and bent to scoop the boy in my arms. He was light, and I adjusted him against my chest.

“You’re all right, man. I’m just going to help your mom get you to the car.” Soft muffled tears were his only response. I turned to the little girl, whose face was splotchy and red. She looked at me, not with fear, but with awe. Something shifted, tight and uncomfortable under my skin, but I held out one hand.

Without hesitation, the little girl slipped her hand into mine. I didn’t look back as I walked the children straight toward the exit, Sloane right behind me.

As I neared the checkout, I caught the eye of the checker. “Sloane’s cart is in aisle seven. Bag it up and send the bill to the brewery. Have the groceries delivered to the Robinson place.”

The wide eyes of the checker stared back at me.

“Got it?” I asked with irritation.

“Yep. Yes. Got it,” the checker stammered.

Without looking back, I walked through the automatic doors of the grocery store and toward Sloane’s car. The boy in my arms clung to my neck, and the little girl’s hand was tiny in mine, so I tried my best to keep my grip firm but gentle.

When we got to her car, Sloane moved around me to unlock the door and open the back seat. I offered the little girl a flat smile that I hoped wasn’t a grimace. Her tears had dried, and her sad smile tore at my heart. She climbed over the seat and settled into the back. I placed the boy on his feet. He didn’t look up from the concrete, so I simply gave his shoulder a gentle squeeze and turned.

About to walk away, Sloane’s voice called to me. “Wait.”

Cautiously, I looked over my shoulder, bracing for a quick poke or witty response from her. Instead, she tucked her son into the car, fastened his seat belt, and gently closed the door. I watched her every move. In two steps, she surged forward, wrapping her arms around me.

My arms were pinned to my sides by her hug. Her small stature was dwarfed by my mass, but she squeezed. “Thank you.”

The broken sadness in her voice nearly killed me. I bent my head down, reluctantly accepting her gratitude and stealing a whiff of her hair.

When she released me, I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”

Unsure what to do, I turned and fled down the sidewalk in hulking steps toward the safety of the brewery. When I was out of sight, I finally slowed and pulled the notepad from my pocket. I scribbled down exactly the way Sloane smelled so I wouldn’t forget.

Honey. Biscuits. Home.